David Wishart - Parthian Shot

I shrugged. He was right, of course: it wasn’t any of our business. Still, it was odd, and I hadn’t been mistaken about the reaction. Nor could Phraates himself be unaware of it. So what the hell was he playing at?

The rest of the meal was uneventful but good. Me, I’m a wine man, mostly, but I know good food when I taste it, and this was the real thing. One of the dishes just had to be Meton’s guinea-fowl, and I came to a private arrangement with our waiter re sneaking me the recipe; plus another that caught my fancy, of paper-thin slices of lamb marinated in herbs and wrapped around a minced wild boar stuffing.

We’d got to the fruit and nuts stage and were filling up the corners when the girls slipped in. Three of them. If it’d been a Roman dinner party — at least a certain kind of Roman dinner party — I wouldn’t’ve been all that surprised because girls with the dessert are pretty much standard, but at diplomatic dinners you don’t expect that sort of thing. I didn’t, anyway, and although Vitellius never said a word he choked on a mouthful of wine, so maybe he didn’t either. Wherever they’d sprung from they were stunners, two eastern-looking ones and a tall negress. I could’ve predicted which couches they’d head for: one — the negress — to Damon, Phraates’s ageing problem teenager, one of the easterners to Tiridates and the other to -

But the third girl — a real honey with long unplaited jet-black hair and perfect bone structure — didn’t go to Mithradates’s couch after all. She crossed the room and joined Callion.

I dug Vitellius in the ribs. ‘Ah…would this be standard diplomatic practice?’ I murmured.

‘No.’ He dabbed fiercely with a napkin at where he’d spilled wine down his front. ‘No, it bloody wouldn’t! Still, they aren’t doing any harm, and female company — not wives, of course, they don’t count — isn’t unusual at Parthian dinner parties. They’re none of our business. Ignore them.’

‘Fine. You’re the one throwing your wine around, pal, not me.’

‘Shut up.’

There was a whoop from the direction of the serving door. I turned just as the slim, long-legged girl in the G-string and bra who was responsible came out of the backward roll that’d taken her onto the stage, bounced to her feet and reached for the baton which the man following her was already throwing…

She muffed the catch. The baton skittered across the floor and came to rest against the wall behind her. The girl covered well, walking backwards and hooking it up with a twist of her bare foot to send it spinning among the other three the pair were tossing between them now, but she’d spoiled their entrance and I could see she knew it.

‘Ah,’ Vitellius said. ‘The entertainment. Zariadres did say they’d booked a troupe of tumblers.’

I settled back to enjoy the show. Sure, call me simple, but tumblers and jugglers I’ve always liked; as far as I’m concerned in terms of entertainment value they leave soulful-eyed crooners and these bloody ballet dancers who pretend they’re finding their way round an imaginary wall nowhere, while stand-up comics are beyond the pale. That initial slip aside, these ones were pretty good, among the best I’d seen for a long time. The guy — like the woman, he looked an easterner — gradually fed in more batons until there were a full seven of them. At that point he snatched the first out of the air and replaced it with a sword which may’ve been fake but looked sharp as hell. Then he did the same with the second baton. Finally, there were only the swords.

That was when the second girl came in. She was a dead ringer for the first, but a younger version, maybe early teens: it was only now, when I saw them together, that I realised the original girl — woman, rather — had to be far older than she looked. Obviously, mother and daughter. She stood facing us half way between the other two, just behind the spinning swords, and as each passed her she reached out, caught it by the hilt and tossed it behind her. Finally, when the last sword was grounded, the three turned together and bowed.

I’d thought that was the end and I was getting ready to clap and whistle when another guy came through the serving entrance. He was no tumbler, this one, even I could see that: big and broad as a door, pectorals like you see hammered out on fancy parade armour and a set of biceps that looked more like polished rock than muscle. The first two of the troupe, probably mum and dad — although I couldn’t see much physical resemblance between the elder man and the Last of the Titans here — stepped aside, leaving the stage to the youngsters.

If the juggling had been good, what came next was amazing. Like I say, the second guy was no tumbler and didn’t even make a token effort in that direction — he just played the part of the anchor-man while she did all the fancy work — but they made a good team. They finished their act with a sort of human hammer-throw. The guy held the girl by the waist while she wrapped her legs round his torso; at which point he began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, all the time paying her out like a rope until his hands were almost gripping her ankles. Finally he gathered her in again inch by inch and began to slow, until they came to a stop and she climbed down to take a shaky bow.

I applauded with the rest; as an exhibition of sheer strength, grip and balance it’d been impressive as hell. The two kids were beaming and red as beetroots. Quite rightly so.

‘That wasn’t bad.’ Vitellius was slitting a peach.

I glanced at him.

‘Not bad? It was brilliant! ’

‘That’s what I said.’

The other two had made their bows as well and the troupe was backing towards the serving door when Mithradates stood up.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘Stay where you are.’

They froze. I noticed that the woman had bitten her lip while the younger guy was glowering like thunder, saucepan-lid hands clenched. Uh-oh.

Mithradates pointed to the girl. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Come over here.’

The girl darted a quick, scared glance at the others. The older man’s expression had set hard as concrete. He put out his hand and grasped her wrist. His wife was staring right at Mithradates; and if ever I saw hate on a face I saw it on hers.

Mithradates’s eyes were still on the girl. ‘Over here,’ he repeated. ‘Now.’

The girl shook her head numbly. The big guy’s hands flexed and he leaned towards us; I could see he was within a hair’s-breadth of running forwards and catching the Iberian by the throat, which in this company was not a good idea…

I stood up myself. ‘Hang on a minute, pal.’

Beside me, Vitellius murmured: ‘Sit down, you bloody fool!’ I ignored him.

Mithradates turned slowly to face me. I’d seen eyes like that before, when Sejanus had stared me down after my father’s funeral. Same expression too, of absolute, total disbelief, like a worm had reared up and bitten him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

I kept my tone low-key and reasonable; no point in pushing for trouble. ‘The show’s over,’ I said. ‘The girl’s done her part. Now let her go home.’

Mithradates’s brows came down like hatchets. He raised his hand, finger levelled at me. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You just…’

‘Mithradates,’ Phraates interrupted in a mild voice that cut like a razor. ‘Valerius Corvinus is quite right. It was a good show, but it’s over.’ He reached into his belt, pulled out a purse and flung it for the elder man to catch. ‘Now. You will sit down, please.’ Then, when the guy didn’t move, he snapped: ‘Sit down! Now! You shame us!’

The silence was absolute. Slowly, never taking his eyes off mine, Mithradates lowered himself onto his couch. I could hear pent-up breaths go out all around the room.